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Bernhard pulled into complex one.

I could hear the ocean roll up onto the  black volcanic sand. That’s how close we were to the beach.

‘Now how the fuck did you know where this place was,’ I asked.

‘There’s not much I don’t know young man.’

The young man he was talking about was me.

‘Jack the fucker, if anyone wants to know your name.’

Just call me Jack I said.

‘I hear you been calling yourself Vanya?’

‘And Frank too when it suits me.’

I was looking forward to meeting that Vetto character. I had read  all his books. He seemed like my kinda character.

‘He doesn’t exist.’

That wouldn’t surprise me. We were all just names.

‘You might be, but I am who I say I am.’

Bernhard pulled up under a tree and clicked his remote button to lock the SUV we had rented in Kuta.

‘Time to party fuckwit or douchebag, or fucktard, all names you seem to respond to.’

He was right. It was better to be nameless. There was no time for identity crisis. Fun was only a few steps away.

Inside a shack with a corrugated roof, a DJ was in the corner cranking out tunes. Those tunes were catchy jackhammer tunes mainlined into the skull and combined with Bintang beer and access to hot whores, it was a heady mix. It was so dark inside, a  few tables, tatty chairs, and glorious whores.

‘Looks like you need to get laid.’

It’s always the anticipation, ‘better than the actual grunt work for fucking.’

‘Don’t  be a pussy and just empty your ball sacks.’

I could write about Vanya in third person. Or just write myself into the story.

‘Here,’ says Bernhard, who hands  me some red notes, ‘go and get fucked. It might stop the dribble.’

I was aware of Muslim terrorists.

‘None here, just hard working whores who are short of some change.’

So you don’t advise me to go into fantasy land?

‘You might lose yourself. And I’ll be the poor cunt to find you.’

He knew me better than I knew myself.

We sunk a few teas and lapped up the grunge.

‘What you see is what you get.’

What I was seeing, I was liking.

‘But where the fuck is that Vanya character? I asked, getting a bit irritable, waiting around.

‘You are are fucking him.’

Oh, that was  news to me.

‘Did you knew that walking is  the closet  you are going to get to god?’

‘Is this another one of your new kicks?’

I had it in my head if I  could walk ten kilometers a day, no  matter  how long it took me, whether, four hours or ten, that  I might lose my gut and write better.’

‘Well your writing is still crap  and that gut is getting bigger.’

I said thanks for the compliment and lets hit the beach for a walk.

‘You never know what we’ll run into,’ I said.

‘Whores on the beach most likely.’

Now that you mentioned,  I know a little warung built from bamboo that’s just down the road  on the beach. ‘We might even go for a walk and check out some local Bali culture.’

Bernhard seemed easy going.

‘We’ll  save the fuck fest for later,’ he says.

Not sure if it was going to happen. As I said, the anticipation was so much more alluring than dumping a load on the belly of  a whore.

‘You are just a tight wad and don’t want to spend your money. Come clean.’

The volcanic sand was jet black with sparkly crystals.

The sun just soaked into the sand.

‘Fucking hot,’ says Bernhard. ‘Walking at the height of the sun isn’t what I call a holiday.’

I was telling him how there’s a village in East Java that…

‘Has  whores with big bazookas.’

That too. But apparently they cultivate a secrete herb that that does wonders for bad joints.

A Balinese was covered  in sand. A temple was behind him. He was also trying to loose weight in his has sand sealed sauna.

‘Come on fuckwit,’ says  Bernhard, ‘lets head to East Java. I  still  think you are full  of shit, but this time I’ll give you the benefit of  the doubt.’

Just admit it I said, ‘you are fucking bored.’

That would soon change. East Java is an enchanting land full of bellowing volcanoes.

‘And big fucking tits.’

That’s right, I said, as Bernhard drove the car on the ferry at Bali’s  most westerly point. The trip only took two hours and the way things were looking, we’d be Bunyuwangi, the port town, before the afternoon call of prayer.

Mt. Eijin loomed as a classical cone shape volcano in the distance. Another volcano loomed even higher behind it. That had to be Bromo. The dark blue water swirled with tonnes of plastic.  The ferry eventually pulled into Java’s most easterly point. It’s the most populated of the Indonesian islands.

‘Save me the fucking tour guide shit,’ says Bernhard, as he drove the car down the ramp  ‘and tell me the name of  a good hotel.’

I think it’s fried  chicken time first, I  said.

Turn right outside the port, and fifty meters down, there  should be a rip off KFC joint that serves the cheapest and best fried chicken in Java.

 

 

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